The Virgin Spring. Debra Lee Brown
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surroundings, looking for something, anything—there! She crouched and with the back of her hand sent the spitted hare flying from its position over the coals. She seized a brand from the fire—one that glowed red-hot at its tip—and rose to meet her assailant. She brandished it before her, her gaze locked on his.
He stopped. Dead in his tracks. He looked from her to the brand and narrowed his eyes. “Put it down.”
She frowned. His voice—Something was not right. She backed up a step, and he took another toward her.
“Woman, I said put it down.” His face was rigid, his jaw set, yet tiny clues belied his confidence. She watched the lump in his throat move up and down as he swallowed hard. A fine sheen of perspiration broke across his brow.
The brand. Why, he was afraid of it! The realization sparked her courage. She lurched forward and thrust the fiery end of her weapon at him. ’Twas a mistake. He grabbed her wrist and yanked her toward him.
Jesu! Her feet flew out from under her but he held fast, his hand a steel trap. She scrambled to regain her balance, then found herself looking up into his cool eyes.
“Let go,” he said and proceeded to squeeze her wrist.
He hurt her, the brute. She felt the sting of tears glass her eyes, but she did not look away. Instead, she pursed her lips and shot him her most defiant expression.
A corner of his mouth turned up at the edge, ever so slightly. What, did he think this amusing? His eyes warmed then, and he loosened his grip. “I willna hurt ye, woman. Ye have my word.”
His speech was strange—that’s what had bothered her. She understood him but something was not right. What was it?
“Now drop your weapon.” He nodded at the brand, which now seemed small and useless in light of his size and superior strength.
She let go, and it fell to the earthen floor. He kicked it neatly back into the fire. Only then did he let go her wrist. Shrinking backward, she pulled the edges of the plaid tighter around herself. Surprisingly, he turned and strode from the cave.
Where was he going? Before she had time to consider her options he was back. In his hand was a balled-up garment. Her shift! He tossed it to her and she caught it with one hand.
“Dress yourself,” he said.
She swallowed hard and examined the thin, white garment. ’Twas clean and dry. She started to slip the plaid from her shoulders then stopped. Her eyes met his. Oh, no.
“Hmph,” he grunted, and to her surprise he turned his back on her.
In seconds she was dressed. Well, half-dressed. A shift and a coarse, woolen plaid. Not exactly proper attire.
He turned to face her. “Now sit,” he commanded and nodded to the pallet of furs.
Her eyes widened and she took a step back. He didn’t move. It occurred to her if he meant to—to harm her, he wouldn’t have allowed her to dress. She obeyed.
He knelt in front of her and his expression softened. He was almost handsome without that scowl. “What in God’s name are ye doing here—a woman alone, and in naught but a shift?”
What was she doing here? The image of a high place, desolate and windswept, flashed briefly in her mind. Standing stones, in a half circle, reached toward a dark, starless sky.
Her head throbbed. She tried to speak, but couldn’t make the words. She ran a hand over her scalp and drew a sharp breath when she met the source of tenderness.
“Aye, ’tis a fair-size lump, but ye seem right enough now.” He reached out to touch her and she instantly drew back, her eyes riveted to his. “Hold still,” he commanded.
Her pulse quickened as he moved closer and ran his huge hand across the nape of her neck then slowly upward, seeking out her injury. Her skin warmed under his touch and she fought the strange urge to let her head roll back in his hand.
He was so close she could feel his breath on her face as he traced the bump with gentle fingers. He had a clean, male scent about him she found pleasing.
She felt strange all of sudden, confused—by him and by the muddle of emotions that erupted inside her: fear, excitement, attraction. What was happening?
Abruptly, he drew back and looked away, his face contorting, as if the exploration had been distasteful. “You’ll live,” he said, then stood.
He strode to the far corner of the cave and stooped to retrieve the spitted hare. “Too bad about this. I expect you’re hungry.” He inspected it and shrugged. “’Tis still edible. Here.” He tossed it to her and she caught it.
His manner had changed completely. He was stiff, cold. She felt a pang of disappointment. Was she daft? She had to get out of here. She must get to…where was she going? She could see the place in her mind, but—
“The storm has passed. I’m leaving now,” he said. He gathered up the scattered plaids and cooking gear and placed them in the corner of the cave. “Ye’d best do the same. ’Tis no safe here for a woman alone.” He kicked some dirt onto the fire and, before she could even get up, he was gone.
Her stomach growled. How long had it been since she’d eaten? She looked longingly at the roasted hare, then at the cave’s entrance. After a moment, the warrior appeared by the spring, leading a gray horse. She’d been right about that.
Without another thought, she ripped the hare from the spit, gathered the edges of the plaid about her, and followed him outside.
What a nuisance.
Gilchrist shook his head and urged the stallion into a trot. The woman clung to his back, a slender arm wrapped around his waist. He noticed she took great care to avoid touching his right side. She’d seen him bathing. Damn her prying eyes.
Christ, what was he going to do with her? He couldn’t just leave her here, now could he? And what was wrong with her? She had yet to utter a single word.
“Hmph.” None of this mattered as he’d be rid of her as soon as was practical. He tried to ignore her and focus on his own problems, but she made it damned difficult holding him as tightly as she did.
He guided his mount into the forest and the gray settled in at a casual pace. Sunlight streamed through the emerald canopy of larch, laurel and a few scattered pines. Everything was green, fresh, the damp ground and a few downed tree limbs the only evidence of yesterday’s storm.
Casting his head back, he inhaled deeply. There it was after all, the unmistakable scent of spring. He swore silently under his breath.
They reached the forest path in no time and he quickly reined the stallion south, away from the burnt-out clearing and toward the clan’s new demesne. The woman let go of him for a moment. She looked back, he was certain, at the charred rubble.
He issued one subtle command and the stallion lurched forward. The woman gasped and her arms flew around him. Served her right. The edges of his mouth turned up in a smile.
They rode like that for some time, the warmth of the sun and the stallion’s easy pace lulling him into a rare state of relaxation. The woman rested her head against his back, and with each footfall of the stallion he could feel the soft weight of her breasts moving against him.
For the first time in—how long?—he felt good.
He focused on the path in front of him and tried to think of something else: the clan, Alex’s almost too casual helpfulness, and Hugh’s words of advice.
A bride—a Davidson bride.
Moments later the sound of bells and the dull clanking of metal on metal snapped him to attention. He narrowed his eyes, quickly scanning the forest in all directions. The clamor originated in front of them. He urged his mount into the cover of the trees.
The woman squirmed and fidgeted behind him. Damn her! He grabbed one of her hands and squeezed it. “Be still!” She